And so Diane was tied. Her legs splayed like a frog’s, and her hips were pushed up by the pillows, so her cunt was well presented. I was behind her, and she could not turn her head to look back, so the finger I ran lightly, just inside her lips, was a shock to her. She was wet.

My finger was gone before she could relax and enjoy the touch. Her hips juddered, almost imperceptibly. I was certain that she wanted to beg, to plead for me to stroke her cunt again. But she’d learned enough to know it would do no good. I put my hand on her ass, my forefinger near her asshole. She held herself still, absolutely still, her ass up as far as she could hold it.

She was like a puppy hoping for a biscuit. She posed and waited. Hoping.

I smiled, which she couldn’t see, and smacked her bottom, twice. She held the pose. “Good girl,” I said.

Diane breathed out. Disappointed and obscurely happy not to have her own way. I felt very tender, very fond of her at that moment. It was time to birch her.

Boys own story, published in the 1930s. The scouts’ bondage was “spiritual”. I sometimes tell that to submissives, when I tie them to the kitchen table.

I was a scout for about half an hour when I was six.

It wasn’t my choice.My older brothers were scouts, and I could see scouting was as boring as school and likewise involved adults telling you what to do, but you were supposed to do it voluntarily, in your own time. Sod scouting, I thought.

But my parents got me in.

My own efforts got me out. I climbed a flagpole – they had lots of them – and said every rude word I knew. That didn’t take long, as I was an innocent child. But it was enough to get me thrown out.

So mission accomplished. There was trouble with the parents afterwards, but it was worth it.

I‘ve never been very interested in bondage for its own sake. Many people like it, as an artform. I just use bondage to take away the choice of moving, and to let the submissive feel that she’s helpless. My interest is in the bonds being effective and feeling ruthless.

Before this night with Diane it was mostly a kind of play-acting when I tied a submissive. I’d used bondage mostly as a kind of play-acting. I might let her wait and enjoy the sense of being held in place, no matter how she struggled, but mostly I had an agenda – discipline, or fucking, or both. The ties I used generally let her struggle and writhe about, enjoying the sense of being held implacably, and feeling herself to be a poor helpless little thing. But in most cases the bonds weren’t really necessary. The submissive would have been able to hold herself still and stay presented even if I hadn’t tied her.

So bondage allowed submissives I played with, or lived with, the benefit of not having to stay obedient during discipline, while pretending that if she as to be tied then the discipline must be terribly fierce and severe.

But Diane was likely to go through pain that was a notch or two harder than I’d delivered before. This really would be severe. I’d chosen the birch because it seemed the instrument most likely to cut her skin and draw some blood without my having to flail away like I was threshing corn. I could be moderate and still give her some cuts and abrasions, and a bit of red trickle to admire in the mirror. Even so, people who’d been birched had mixed feelings about whether they’d enjoyed it, but no-one seemed to be in any doubt that it had hurt.

So I tied Diane with unusual care, fixing her wrists and ankles, and adding a few loops round her knees to keep them well spread. When I’d finished she was trussed, certainly unable to move from her position on the centre of the table.

Diane cooperated in being tied, obeying when I told her to move, but she had no difficulty staying silent.

I said, “I’m going to birch you.”

Diane nodded, then said, “Yes, Sir.”

“I’m going to draw blood, little vampire girl. And then I’m going to continue. Are you ready for that?”

Another nod. Then she remembered and said, “Yes, Sir.” Her throat was dry.

I picked up the birch while Diane was fiddling about in the bedroom, untying the cords attached to her bed. I gave it a couple of practice swings, making a silken, dangerous sound in the air. Diane returned just as I swished it the third time, and she paused and swallowed before taking another step towards me.

She held out the rope: three separate pieces, each neatly coiled and about four metres long, “Sir? How do you want me?”

I ignored the rope she held out and looked at her. “Er,” she said, “want me to be, when you birch me.”

“Put two cushions on the coffee table. In the middle so you can get your ass on them. Nice and high.”

“Yes, Sir.” Diane arranged the cushions as instructed, and looked at me again. “Shall I take my shirt off now, Sir?”

“I’ll tell you if I want you to do anything. And I don’t need helpful suggestions, Diane.”

“No, sorry, Sir. Shall I bend – Oh. No, sorry Sir.”

“That’s better. And yes, Diane, get on the table now. Face down. Get your hips over the cushions and keep your ass up. Good girl. Now spread your legs. Because I’m going to want to birch the insides of your thighs, girl. Spread wider. That’s right.”

Diane obeyed. That line about “inner thighs” had reached her.

Once she’d arranged herself as ordered, she waited, looking at me, a man with a birch in his hand. I was looking at a submissive woman entirely offered, presented, on a table. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something. But she remembered in time, and did not speak.

Lican just sent this. It’s a pic she took of me and Angelica by the fire, two nights after we’d reached Argentina. Angelica naked looks better than me, but I’ve had to crop her out. She can’t be on the net, or not in this context. So you’re stuck with me.

I eventually realised that Lican was putting up a fight, but – and here, I just had to trust that I was reading her signals right – she wanted me to win. She wanted to know that I had the strength and the lust to force her, before she’d fuck me willingly.

Which is, you know, macho bullshit, and generally stuff that I hate. I don’t just hate it on political grounds; it makes me feel a bit stupid, to be honest, and that’s somewhere near the opposite of sexy. I really don’t enjoy ambiguity about consent.

But I relied on what seemed to be noises of pleasure amongst the struggling sounds, and little gives, like the way she’d stop for a second when I had my hand against her breasts or her cunt. And other places she liked touched. And the fact that she only had to say “no” if she wanted me to stop. I don’t know enough Spanish to cover a post-it note, but I know what “no” means. I’d have understood “basta”, because of Italian.

So I pushed her legs open with mine, tugged a pleasantly damp bit of gusset out of the way, and pressed my cock forward, and it was only then that she smiled again, said yes-like things, and made me welcome. Which isn’t the order I prefer. I like consent first, then penetration. But we had different ways of getting to the things we both liked.

I’ve been thinking about how Lican and I couldn’t say anything complicated to each other, because I don’t speak any of her languages and she doesn’t speak much English.

Angelica could translate between us, but there were things we didn’t feel comfortable talking about, not if we had to talk about them through Angelica. It got easier once Angelica was brought inside our sexual circle, so we could all be more intimate about what we said and did with, or in front of, each other. Even then, there were things that we never said.

We never sorted out what was happening between us when she submitted. Lican feels, as best we’ve been able to clarify this, that a man should rule a woman. She sees that as a general principle: in any heterosexual couple, the man should rule. I just think that a man or a woman can be submissive, or dominant, or not interested in these categories at all. It’s something people can agree to explore, according to what feels right to them and turns them on.

I think I’m right, and that I’d naturally win that argument and convince her, if we were actually able to talk about it. No doubt Lican thinks the opposite.

But one of the first things we did in that hotel room back in Porvenir was to have a wrestling match. We were fighting over possession of her cunt, really. If I won, I’d fuck her. If she won, she’d stay unfucked. So ordinarily I’d have backed off immediately, because that’s pretty much a definition of rape.

But I started the wrestling match because Lican was clearly turned on and wanted to fuck, and she’d been enthusiastic about getting her outer layer of clothes off, and most of my clothes. She pushed me away and closed her legs suddenly, but she was laughing, so I thought it was just a playful, jokey thing. I was happy to hold her and wriggle around on a bed with her, and she seemed happy to be wriggling and rolling. She was laughing, and there was something encouraging about her eyes, but she was still keeping her knickers on, more or less, and her cunt out of my cock’s way.

We reached Diane’s apartment and her door clicked behind us. We were in Diane’s world, or at least her living room, and the world was outside, far away. There was a couch, an armchair and a long low wooden coffee table.

I’d fucked her on each one of those items. And I’d burnt her knees on the carpet. So there was a sense that we were back in our proper place: a room we had sex in, and where Diane was often mildly and deliberately hurt. So Diane was under my direction in this room, and in my power. She hoped. She turned and looked at me. “Sir? Would you like me to take my shirt off?”

But I wasn’t quite in my place yet. I was just in over my head. Fortunately, a dom can always bluff. “When I tell you, Diane. First, that rope by your bed. Get it. Fetch it. Bring it here.” I smacked her thigh.

But Diane just looked confused, and held the bundle of switches out for a second, as if to offer them to me. Oh.“Yes, of course. Put the birch down first. Stupid girl.”

I smacked her thigh again, as though it was her fault that I’d given her an order I hadn’t thought through. It was unfair but Diane wanted me to be leading and in the right.

We walked back from the park in silence. I didn’t mind that. Just a few minutes earlier, Diane had come, from being taken to a park, stripped near-naked in a public place and whipped. So she had that to think about, and although there were some self-revelations that might have surprised her, I was sure she was enjoying the memory.

I was confident, too, that she was looking forward to the moment when we got to her apartment and I closed the door behind us. She was expecting that our session back home, where I’d have more privacy to do painful and sexual things to her and she’d have privacy to writhe and struggle and squeal, would be even better.

I wasn’t unhappy, but my thoughts weren’t quite as sunny as hers. I was about to birch Diane till I drew blood. I knew that was what she wanted, and that she’d be very disappointed if I didn’t. But I’d never drawn blood. I was proud of being careful and accurate when I used any instrument on a submissive.

I don’t think I’d even broken a submissive’s skin, or drawn the most modest spot of blood. Part of my definition of being good at domming was not doing what I was about to try to do.

I couldn’t talk about these doubts with Diane, or at least I felt that I shouldn’t. Although most submissives will be ready to talk through any doubts, fears or insecurities a dom may have, she’d prefer not to have to. Diane wanted my certainty and my power, not my doubts and weaknesses.

So I slipped my hand under Diane’s torn siort and patted, then gripped her right buttock, feeling the warmth from the last time my hand had landed there, and enjoying the muscular action as she walked. She smiled at me and we walked together, hip to hip. She was proud. She’d been brave, she’d pushed her own boundaries, and she was about to push them further, she expected. I wasn’t so sure I felt pride, but I walked proudly. With her.

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